


love is (not) for selling houses

by VesperNexus



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Admissions of Love, Angst, Cheeeeese, Contracts, Fluff, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 08:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11101239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: “I love you.”A pause. “I don’t follow.”“I. Love. You.”Fiedler stared at him, a moment longer, and then seemed to decide Leamas was still drunk.Or, Leamas has a proposition for Jens. It ends unexpectedly.





	love is (not) for selling houses

**Author's Note:**

> Um  
> so i don't know where this came from  
> it kind of just happened
> 
> darker than i intended and then WAY fluffier than i intended but what can i say i am consistent 
> 
> Kind of rushed but i tried so

“Tell me about Control,”

“No.”

Leamas lounged in the large armchair, staring rebelliously at the lean figure leant against the mantle of the fireplace. Fiedler’s arms were crossed comfortably across his chest. He seemed to expect the answer.

“You do realise, Alec - the point of defecting is to actually _defect_.” His tone was playful, and for a moment Leamas considered getting up and slamming him against the wall.

He was infuriating.

“Go fuck yourself,” and yet he did not seem deterred. Fiedler only chuckled. It was a quiet, harmonic sound. Full of innocence. It was too pleasant. It sent shivers down Leamas’ spine.

And therein lay the crux of his frustration.

Leamas was not attracted to men. And yet, over the past months, he had been almost _drawn_ to Fiedler’s careless touches. The way his fingers would brush against Leamas’ shoulder or the back of his hand. He was drawn to the sight of those long legs crossed over each other, the peak of one pale collarbone from beneath his shirt. Fiedler was lean, pale. He looked almost delicate, submissive. Yet he was neither.

_He could be,_ it echoed at the back of his head.

“Have you met his wife?”

“No.”

“So, he is married then?”

_Damn it._ “He’s-”

“What about his son, Tim?”

“That’s not his na-”

Fiedler only smiled, that soft, boyish smile, and Leamas felt anger at his own idiocy.

“I’m not saying another _damn thing_ Fiedler.”

The smile remained. In that moment, his anger swelled. He was not a child. He knew, at this rate, Fiedler would get all he wanted out of him – one unassuming question at a time. And yet – he could beat him at his own game.

“I’ll answer your questions,” Fiedler raised an immaculate eyebrow. The flames cast his face in shadows, “but I’m going to need something in exchange.”

“Oh?” he was no longer smiling. “And what might that be?”

Leamas stood up slowly. In those five steps it took to reach the other man, he contemplated: all the things that could go wrong. All the things that _should_ go wrong if someone caught them.

And yet, in the still darkness, illuminated only by the fireplace, Leamas gave in to all his urges. The urges that plagued him at the thought of Fiedler’s long fingers, the narrowness of his waist, the length of his legs.

He did not stop until he was toe-to-toe with the other man. Fiedler had unfolded his arms so they were by his sides, chin tilted upwards in curiosity. He had not expected this.

Leamas inched closer, planted one foot between Fiedler’s two. He was almost cathartic in his movements, his hands gliding upwards until his fingers curled around those wonderfully thin hips. Fiedler was less than a head shorter than him, so when he tilted his chin Leamas could perfectly see the hollow lines of his face, the uncertainty which had never before been in his eyes.

They were chest to chest. Leamas felt every jutting bone of Fiedler’s body against his, every hollow place, every curve.

He leant in, so his lips were at the German’s ear.

“I think you know _exactly_ what I want in exchange.”

Fiedler shuddered in his hold, and it was the most beautiful sensation Leamas had experienced in such a long time.

He inched his face back slightly to stare into the other man’s eyes. Leamas knew Fiedler could not say no.

The kiss was deep, impassioned, almost brutal. Leamas subverted their roles spectacularly: Fiedler was not leading the show. _He_ had to be compliant, _he_ had to answer to Leamas. And he did, with a parting of his lips and an unexpected moan which made Leamas tighten his grip almost painfully around those narrow hips.

At some point, Fiedler’s arms had woven themselves around Leamas’ neck, drawing him impossibly closer.

Leamas broke the kiss when the air had completely left his lungs. Fiedler looked dazed, back pressed painfully against the fireplace mantle.

“I will tell you about Control. The Circus,” his voice was too deep, “in exchange for _this_ ,” his hands slid up Fiedler’s waist, down the small of his back and a little bit _further._

Fiedler released a shaky breath. For the first time since he had known him, the German seemed without his suave composure. His silky voice was lost to him when he replied.

“And if I am not in the business of whoring myself to defectors?” His arms were still tight around Leamas’ shoulders.

“Aren’t you?”

Fiedler’s cheeks had a red tint. Leamas relished every moment. He had never thought he could make the manipulator come so undone. _Make them come to you,_ he remembers Control saying.

“Give me what I want, and I’ll be no more trouble to you. We don’t have to play these silly games.” He drew in     short breath before leaning down. His lips found Fiedler’s pale neck. The East-German was still. “Think of it,” he bit softly into the flesh, “like a contract. A transaction.”

“I am not a whore,” there was quiet resolve in his voice, and Leamas was surprised. He seemed almost defensive. Fascinating.

“Oh Fiedler,” he whispered huskily into his ear, “we’re all whores in the end. We just choose to sell a different part of ourselves.”

And so, the first time he takes Fiedler, there is no love, no sensitivity. Not like Liz. Fiedler is beautiful, and as of now, compliant. He is Leamas’ part of the transaction. He feels little regret: hearing those gentle moans echo in the stifling warmth of the cabin, feeling the ridges of that spine against his chest, seeing knuckles whiten as long fingers curl around the fireplace mantle – it is all worth it.

And later, when they are separated – and there is too much conflict in Fiedler’s dark, intelligent eyes – Leamas answers him as he pleases. It works. And as the days pass and time dwindles, for every long, complex question Leamas need only smile and Fiedler will straddle his lap and unbutton his shirt. Leamas’ hands have become familiar with all the ridges and curves of Fiedler’s body. He does not think – he loses himself mapping the flat stomach and soft thighs and protruding ribs.

For the longest time, there is only one emotion: Lust.

*

When the desire begins to dwindle into something else, Leamas does the sensible thing: he ignores it.

He ignores the warmth that fills his chest when Fiedler stays in the bed, after, and Leamas rests one arm on his waist so they are close throughout the night. When his chin fits perfectly on the crook of Fiedler’s neck, when he smiles into the soft locks of dark hair. He ignores the pervasive feeling – the _other_ emotion which comes with the intimacy and the sex. The emotion he had not felt since he married the first time, since Liz.

He convinces himself he only misses the feeling of holding another body to his. He tries, anyway.

*

“You’re positive that was what Guillam said? Precisely?”

“Yes, Fiedler,” Leamas was becoming annoyed at being asked the same question. “Precisely. What the hell does it matter anyway?”

Fiedler didn’t look up from his notes. They sat at the wooden table, across from one another. Fiedler was content to spend the entire morning grilling Leamas on information he’d repeated a dozen times. Seemingly little, insignificant facts.

Suddenly – “Does Smiley have a house outside London?”

The tone of his voice told Leamas this was a particularly vital question.

“Not that I know of,” _be vague, be terrible,_ he remembered Control saying. “He could have.”

“Does he, or doesn’t he?”

He didn’t respond.

“Leamas, a transaction works both ways,” he seemed to become irritated. Leamas had never heard him speak so impatiently. “I’ve fulfilled my portion of the contract. So - does George Smiley have a house outside of London?”

Leamas sighs. “Ann has an estate in Versailles. They’re still married, so it’s accessibly to him.” Fiedler nods. “Control says they married because of love,” he ridicules absentmindedly.

“You don’t agree?” Fiedler does not look up.

Leamas snorts. “Smiley must have known what he was getting into. Ann is… difficult to say the least.” Fiedler finally glances up at him. “Besides, _love_ is a Capitalist construct we push on people to sell them houses.”

Fiedler pauses in his writing. A moment passes.

“Indeed.”

*

Leamas lounged back on the armchair as Fiedler collected his clothes. It may be his favourite place: the fire paints their skin in hues of gold, the armchair is large enough to accommodate both of them, the smell of sex is powerful, the guards are far away. For a while, they were not in Germany. For a while, Leamas was somewhere that felt oddly like _home._ There was something unusually intimate about it.

Leamas watched as Fiedler left to his room to change, as if there was a part of him that he hadn’t seen. He wondered if it was his way of separating himself – taking off one mask to wear another. To reiterate to himself it was a transaction: no more.

Since their agreement all those week ago, Fiedler had become quieter. Leamas noticed the immensely subtle changes. There was no longer any excitement in his voice, his hands were more still than not, and the companionship between them – outside their intimacy – seemed to dissolve.

Before their engagement, Leamas had found Fiedler terrible, infuriating, coy. But he had also found a friend in him. Now, he was careful not to touch him accidently, he sat at a distance, and questioned Leamas formally as opposed to conversationally. Now, Fiedler seemed to have detached himself so completely. It should not have kept Leamas awake at night.

He had tried to squish the kernels of concern within him, but to no avail. They simmered, festering. Finally, he could no longer take it.

Standing from the chair, he stalked to Fiedler’s room, opening the door without knocking.

Fiedler hadn’t showered yet – his shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, unbuttoned, skin still glistening.

He seemed apathetic to the intrusion, his back again to Leamas.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He wasted no time. Fiedler sighed softly and faced him, and from here Leamas could make out the permanent shadows under his eyes, the prominence of his cheekbones.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he sounded tired.

Leamas almost groaned. “Don’t give me that. You’ve gone all weird – detached.”

Fiedler looked plainly at him. “Indeed.”

“Don’t give me that,”

Fiedler let out a disbelieving sound, “Why on earth do you _care_?” He sounded frustrated. Finally.

Leamas stalked forward, his large steps eating up the space between them quickly. Fiedler didn’t move. Leamas couldn’t handle it anymore, he needed a response, _anything_.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” Nothing. “You’re too distant, empty – it’s _patheti-”_

_SLAP._

Time seemed to freeze. Leamas’ cheek stung. Fiedler looked at his hand in horror, as if it had moved on its accord.

“I-” he released a shaky breath, stepping backwards. Leamas didn’t stop him. “I’m sorry I – I didn’t-”

All composure seemed to have fled him. In that moment, Leamas saw what he had been ignoring the entire time. Under the harsh amber light, Fiedler was too thin, too weary. There seemed to be little determination in his eyes. His hands trembled.

“Jens.” He said softly, because it was all he could.

“I’m sorry.” Fiedler’s voice seemed to echo. “I don’t think this is going to work. We have facilities, if you need.” The silence was heavy, tense. “I thought I could, because of how I…felt towards you.” Leamas is breathless. “But I’m not a whore.”

The terrible truth came tumbling down. Like a flash of thunder, it illuminated the dark, dismal space they had both been occupying. “Jens…”

The younger man released a strangled laugh. “I can’t be intimate, with you Alec. Not if you’re always going to treat me as your whore. I can’t pretend anymore.”

Leamas could barely breath. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the small space.

“You should leave.”

Leamas did.

Briefly, he wondered if this is how heartbreak felt.

*

Leamas did not see Jens until the next morning. He had not slept the entire night, instead occupying himself with the remaining Steinhager.

It took him half the bottle to realise: this was love.

It took him the other half to realise he could not drink himself out of it.

For half an hour, he tried to balance his resolve and leave his room. He wrestled with the consequences of what he had done, and feared the effects.

For half an hour, he considered the two most likely outcomes.

One: he would leave the room, Jens would be on the other side, writing. He would smile and revert to the character he was before their… engagement. They would both bury their feelings and Leamas would eventually learn to live with a fractured heart. Mundt would go to prison, Leamas would go home, and he would never see Jens again.

Two: he would leave the room, Jens would be on the other side, writing. He would be the balance between tense and tired, and Leamas would be confronted with the potentially irrevocable damage he had caused to the person he had not realised he loved. Leamas would struggle to live with fractured heart, and the solution to his guilt would be at the bottom of the next bottle. Mundt would go to prison, Leamas would go home, and he would never see Jens again.

Neither appealed to him.

And so, he decided on the third outcome.

*

“I love you.”

Leamas did not remember the last time he spoke those words.

Fiedler was on the other side, writing. He glanced up. He had not slept either.

“I’m sorry?”

“I love you.”

A pause. “I don’t follow.”

“I. Love. You.”

Fiedler stared at him, a moment longer, and then seemed to decide Leamas was still drunk.

“Perhaps you should go back to bed, Leamas. It’s still early.” He turned back to his work.

Leamas groaned, frustration seeping from his every pore. He stormed forward, kneeling in front of the other man.

Fiedler turned towards him in surprise – “Leamas-”

“I,” he stared into those bright eyes, easing all his resolve into the gaze, “love you, Jens Fiedler. I might have been an arse about it, but I do. I’m sorry.”

Fiedler’s eyes softened and his lips parted slightly. Leamas wove their fingers together. He did not press.

The moment passed with deliberate slowness, until Fiedler leant down and brushed their lips together. It is soft, unhurried. This time, when they kiss, there is much more than simply desire.

*

It took time. Soft touches here and there, Jens’ head against his shoulder, a wayward smile in his direction. It was slow and glorious. They did not sleep together.

There were few moments when they kissed and Leamas relished those – the feel of Jens pressed against him, the taste of Steinhager and something bittersweet on his tongue. They were not the kisses of a desire-frenzy, as they were before. They were gentle, tentative. Delicate. There were even moments when Jens would lay a hand over his, or brush their fingers together deliberately when they were outside. Leamas relished those even more.

*

They only make love the night before Mundt’s trial.

Leamas does not know how this will end, he does not think about it.

He does know however, that he must go home. But home – home is no longer London. Home has not been London for some time now.

As he stares at Jens from the bed, readjusting his tie in front of the mirror, he smiles to himself.

Yes, home is no longer London.

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I borrowed a line from Peaky Blinders (which is awesome btw)
> 
> "we’re all whores in the end. We just choose to sell a different part of ourselves.”


End file.
